“What’s she worried about now?”
“The usual stuff. How hard marriage is with small children. How I shouldn’t have quit my job,” I say, suddenly realizing that her worries are crystallizing in my head, becoming my worries, too. Or maybe they were already brewing and were simply unearthed by a mother’s intuition.
“Did you tell her that we’re fine?” he says, but seems distracted as he checks his BlackBerry, then types a rapid response, his agile thumbs working in tandem. Whenever I see his hands moving like this, I am reminded that he is a surgeon with the finest motor skills, and feel a wave of reassuring attraction. Still, I don’t like his use of the word fine. I want to be better than fine.
“Yeah,” I say. “I told her.”
I watch Nick continue to type, his brow furrowed, and can tell it is a work-related exchange. He finishes abruptly, then pulls on his pajama bottoms, cinching the drawstring at the waist. Do you always sleep topless? I once asked when we first started to date. At which point he laughed and corrected me: Girls wear tops; men shirts. Hence, topless and shirtless. I watch him toss his clothes in the vague vicinity of the hamper, but missing so egregiously he couldn’t really have been trying. It is not like him to be so haphazard, and as I stare down at the pile on the floor, his maroon Harvard baseball cap upside down on the heap, I feel something in me become faintly unhinged. I silently count to ten, waiting for him to say something, anything, and when he doesn’t, I say, “So I printed out the application for Longmere.”
The statement is fully architected to push his buttons, or at the very least engage him in conversation. I feel a tinge of shame for being so manipulative, but feel somehow justified.
“Oh?” he asks, making his way to the bathroom sink. I sit on the edge of the tub and watch the muscles flex in his back as he brushes his teeth with what I’ve always believed to be excessive force. I used to remind him about his gums, how bad his technique is for them, but have given up over the years.
“I think we should get rolling on the process,” I say.
“Yeah?” he says, his tone bored, as if to tell me that this is on the long list of things that aren’t his concern, along with class snacks and Halloween costumes.
Shit, I think. My mother is right.
“Yes. I’ll put it in your briefcase. Do you think you could take a first crack at the essays? Maybe this week? Rachel said Dex did theirs . . .”
Nick gives me a look in the mirror and then says through a mouthful of toothpaste, “Seriously?”
I give him a blank stare as he spits into the sink, rinses his mouth, and says, “Okay. Fine. But I have a crazy week coming up. Charlie’s graft is tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say, my annoyance ratcheting up a notch at the mention of his patient’s first name.
A moment later, he is following me to bed.
“So that’s what we’re doing?” Nick asks with a sigh. “We’ve decided to apply to Longmere?”
“It’s a great school,” I say. “It’s where Charlie goes.”
As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve gone too far.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick says.
“Nothing,” I say with wide-eyed innocence as I adjust the covers around me.
“Okay. What gives, Tess? Are you angry about something?”
“No,” I say as unconvincingly as possible, wanting him to probe one step further, so I can tell him all the things I am feeling, the frustration that approaches anger. Anger that feels justified half the time, paranoid and selfish the rest.
Only he doesn’t probe, doesn’t give me the chance, doesn’t ask any questions at all. Instead, he simply says, “Good. Now, c’mon. Let’s get some rest.”
“Right. I know. You have surgery tomorrow,” I say.
Nick glances over at me, nods, and barely smiles. Then he absent-mindedly checks his BlackBerry one last time before turning off his bedside light, clearly as oblivious to my sarcasm as he is to my little black nightgown.
12
Valerie
On Monday morning, while Dr. Russo and a team of five doctors and nurses operate on Charlie, Valerie sits in the waiting room, doing just that—waiting—and nothing more. She waits alone, having insisted to her mother and brother that they come later, after everything is over. Valerie has never been one to want conversation or distraction during times of stress, and can’t understand the psychology of those who cast about for diversions, like her mother who knits when she’s upset or worried. As such, she does not once turn to watch the flat-screen television that is blaring CNN in the corner, or so much as glance at one of the dozens of women’s magazine scattered on tables throughout the room. She does not even listen to Charlie’s iPod, which she promised to keep for him while he was in the OR. She does not want an escape of any kind. Instead, she wants to remain alert, simply enduring the agonizing minutes, waiting for someone to emerge in the doorway and take her to her son. She hopes that someone will be Nick, for no other reason than she is certain that when she sees his face she will be able to tell right away that everything went smoothly. She knows by now that he is a straight shooter, and she spends her mental energy visualizing the moment she sees his reassuring smile, almost willing it to unfold accordingly.
Only at one point, about two hours after the surgery begins, does Valerie lose focus and let her mind wander to her foolish Saturday-night stunt. She feels her face grow warm with shame, even though she knows she escaped unnoticed, that nobody will ever know what she did, and that it will never happen again. Still, she asks herself what she had hoped to gain or glean. And, God, what if Nick had seen her—or worse, he and his wife had both spotted her? What then? Would they have chalked the maneuver up to a mother so distraught that she lost her moorings, pitying her in more ways than one? Or would their explanation have been less benign, accusing her of stalking? Would Nick have been disturbed enough to recuse himself and turn Charlie over to another, lesser surgeon? The thought makes her literally shudder as she pulls her cardigan more tightly around her.
She asks herself why again—what made her go there?—and does her best to ignore the disturbing answer taking form in her mind. That there is something between them. An attraction. Or at least a connection. She shakes her head, dismissing her conclusion as wrong, delusional. She couldn’t possibly have feelings for a man she barely knows. And he certainly does not have feelings for her, other than mere compassion. She is just vulnerable, that’s all, and he is her salvation. She tells herself that it must be a common phenomenon—patients falling for their doctors, confusing gratitude with something more. In fact, she remembers reading something about it when she was pregnant—how some women develop crushes on their obstetricians. She thought it seemed inconceivable at the time, but looking back, perhaps she was just too preoccupied with Lion for a crush of any kind, however fleeting, to materialize.
So that is it, Valerie decides. She is a textbook case, nothing more. It suddenly makes perfect sense to her, especially given that Nick is so frightfully good to look at. Anyone could plainly see his beauty—his eyes, that hair, those shoulders—which is why so many of the single nurses swooned and giggled around him. Even those who were married, the kind who carried around brag books filled with photos of their husbands and children, seemed smitten.
Valerie crosses her legs and shifts her weight in her armchair, feeling relieved to find such a logical explanation for her erratic behavior. Nick is a brilliant, handsome surgeon—and she, not only single but, these days, utterly walled off from the rest of the world. She looks up, watching the second hand sweep across the face of the clock above her, convincing herself that the crush will soon pass, until a figure moving behind the frosted glass door of the waiting room breaks her concentration. She sits up straighter, hoping it is someone for her, someone with news or an update of some kind. Hoping that it is Nick.
Instead, Valerie looks up to see two women looming in the doorway. She recognizes one, but is slow to place her. She
finally does, stiffening as she hears the woman say her name.
“Romy,” Valerie replies. “What are you doing here?”
Romy raises a big wicker basket filled with a bouquet of white and yellow flowers, which appear to be handpicked but artfully arranged, and fruit so waxy and perfect in appearance that it looks fake.
“I brought you this,” Romy says, carefully placing the basket at her feet. Valerie looks down, noticing a bottle of wine, angled opposite the flowers, raffia tied around its neck. She scans the French label, registers that the bottle is from a vineyard in Provence—and feels a wave of rage at the inappropriateness of wine at a time like this one. She glances around the room, feeling trapped, realizing she has nowhere to go, no possible escape route short of pushing past the women and running out the door. And of course, she can’t leave. She told Nick that this is where she would be.
Valerie acknowledges the basket with a nod, but refuses to thank Romy for the offering, instead turning to gaze at the other woman.
“Hello, Valerie,” she says, speaking slowly as if communicating with a foreigner. “My name is April. My daughter, Olivia, is in Charlie’s class. We just wanted to tell you that the whole class is behind you. The whole school. We’re all so terribly sorry for you and Charlie. How is he?”
“He’s fine,” Valerie says, instantly regretting this answer, especially as she studies April’s expression. There is something about it that Valerie finds distasteful—condescending and aggressive at once. Besides, Charlie’s not fine. He’s not fine at all. So she tells them, “He’s in surgery now.”
The two women exchange a surprised, uneasy glance, solidifying Valerie’s cynicism and suspicion that Romy is worried about a lawsuit, about parting with some of her money. She suddenly remembers Romy’s earrings—the big diamond studs she wore at the open house at school—and notices that small silver hoops are in their place. Gone, too, is her hulking engagement ring. Everything about her appearance is understated, a portrait of a woman trying hard to show she does not have deep pockets.
“Surgery?” Romy says.
“Yes. A skin graft.”
Romy’s hand reaches up to touch her own cheek. “How . . . is . . . his face?”
Valerie’s response is reflexive and terse. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
Another look is exchanged between the two friends, this one more overtly worried, self-interested. Romy’s lower lip quivers as she says, “We were just concerned.”
“About who?” Valerie snaps.
“About Charlie,” April says, stepping in to defend her friend.
Valerie bristles at the sound of her son’s name, spoken by this stranger who has no business being here in the first place.
“Look. I’m not going to sue, if that’s what you’re worried about. No matter how negligent you were.”
Romy looks as if she might cry, while April says, “She wasn’t negligent.”
“Oh?” Valerie says. “So you think it was a good idea to roast marshmallows at a birthday party with a bunch of little boys?”
“Accidents happen. Even when you’re careful,” Romy insists, her eyes now filling with tears.
“Well, can you tell me what happened?” she presses, her volume rising. She notices a man in the corner who has been engrossed in a book glance their way, sensing controversy. “Because your husband said he wasn’t sure. Do you know? Does anyone know?”
Romy stops her tears on demand, further proof that they are fake. “The boys were roughhousing.”
“Six-year-old boys will do that,” April adds.
“Right. So once again,” Valerie says, in her cross-examination mode, “how is unsupervised marshmallow roasting a good idea for a bunch of six-year-olds who are prone to roughhousing?”
“I don’t know. I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Romy says, her words empty, hollow.
“You should have started there,” Valerie snaps.
“She tried to start there,” April says. “You won’t take her calls.”
“I’ve been a little busy here. Forgive me.”
“Look,” Romy tries again. “We know your son is hurt and that you—”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Valerie says, standing, her voice louder. “You think you know me. But you have no clue. None.”
April taps Romy’s shoulder, then nods toward the door. “Let’s go,” she says.
“Great idea. Please. Go,” Valerie says. “And take your wine and flowers with you. Maybe you can use them at your next party.”
Minutes after the women leave, Nick arrives in the waiting room. He is not smiling, but he might as well be. Valerie has learned that this is his version of a happy face—relaxed but dauntless—and she knows in an instant that Charlie is okay. She stands expectantly, awaiting confirmation.
“He did great,” Nick says, which of course means that Nick did great.
This nuance is not lost on Valerie, who feels overcome with emotion as she says, “Thank you so much.”
Nick nods and says, “I’m really pleased with the results.”
Valerie thanks him again, as Nick cautions her that she won’t be able to tell much right now, that the graft still needs time to heal, the new vessels time to grow. “In other words, it might not look pretty to you—but it does to me.”
“Well, that’s what matters,” she says, recalling the before and after images on the computer that she pored over this weekend, all the worst-case scenarios she read about, all against Nick’s admonition to stay off the Internet. “Can I . . . see him?”
“Of course. He’s still asleep, but should be waking up soon,” Nick says, glancing curiously at the basket that the women left behind. “Is that yours?”
“No,” Valerie says, stepping purposefully over it, as she follows Nick’s eyes to the large white envelope clearly addressed to “Valerie and Charlie.”
She awkwardly plucks the card out of the basket, drops it into her bag, and stammers, “I mean, yes . . . it’s mine. But I think I’ll just leave it here. For other families . . . to enjoy. I’m not really in the mood for wine these days . . .”
Nick shoots her a look, as if suspecting more to the story, but says nothing as he leads her out of the room to Charlie. Along the way, he is all business, talking more quickly and excitedly than usual, giving her details about the procedure, telling her how well everything went. When they arrive outside the recovery room, he motions for her to go in first. Valerie braces herself, but not enough for her first glimpse of Charlie in bed, looking smaller than ever. His body is covered with blankets, his scalp and face with dressings, only his nose, eyes, and lips showing. As Valerie watches an unfamiliar nurse take his vitals, she has the sudden urge to go to him, touch the pink of his neck, but she hangs back, frightened that she will somehow infect him.
“How’s he doing?” Nick asks the woman, who responds in a raspy voice, giving him numbers that mean nothing to Valerie.
Nick nods his approval as she makes notations on his chart and slips out the door.
“Come here,” Nick says, motioning her over to the bed.
As Charlie’s lids flutter and open, she feels ashamed for her hesitancy, for not being stronger in this moment. He is the one who has just endured four hours of surgery. He is the one with a mask over his face, an IV dripping into his body. All she had to do was wait.
“Hi, honey,” she says, forcing a smile, feigning courage.
“Mamma,” he says, the first name he ever gave her, when he was just a baby, abandoning it as he learned to talk and walk.
She feels overcome with relief to hear his voice, see the blue of his eyes.
“You did great,” she says, tears welling as she sits on the bed next to him. She rubs his legs through several layers of blankets, watching him struggle to keep his eyes open. After several seconds, his lids grow heavy and close again.
“Here. Let me show you,” Nick whispers, turning to put on a pair of latex gloves. He then goes to Charlie and, with the stead
iest hand, removes the mask and peels back one corner of the dressing to reveal his work.
An uncontrollable gasp escapes Valerie’s lips as she looks down at her son’s face. Sheets of pale, translucent skin cover his cheek, all dotted with tiny holes draining blood and fluid. A ghostlike mask beneath his mask. A scene from a horror movie—the kind Valerie never lets herself glimpse, always hiding her face in her hands. She feels herself start to shake, but keeps the tears at bay.
“You okay?” Nick says.
She nods, gulping air, willing herself to exhale, get it together.
“Remember. It needs time to heal,” Nick says as he replaces the dressing and mask.
She knows she should say something, but can’t get any words out.
“It will look nothing like this in a few days. You’ll be amazed.”
She nods again, feeling dizzy, weak. She tells herself she cannot faint. That she will never forgive herself for fainting upon seeing her son’s face.
“It will turn back to a normal flesh color as it regains vascularity. And it will move like normal, too, after the skin heals and adheres to the underlying facial tissue and muscle.”
Say something, she tells herself as she sits on the edge of Charlie’s bed.
“That’s why we’ll need that face mask, which should be here today or tomorrow. To keep constant pressure—to keep things in place as he starts to eat solid foods, talk, that sort of thing. It will also help control his pain—”
Valerie looks up at him, alarmed into finally speaking. “He’s going to be in pain? I thought you said there were plenty of pain meds?”
Nick points to the IV and says, “There are. But there will still be some discomfort—and the pressure helps with that.”
“Okay,” she says, the dizziness and terror clearing as she gathers facts she will need to help her son. “So he can drink now?”
Nick nods. “Yes. He can sip liquids, and we’ll go to soft foods in the next day or so. And other than that, he just needs rest. Lots of rest.”